


Caught in the Jet Stream

by whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp



Series: Shorts/One Shots [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bubbles - Freeform, F/F, Femlock, Hot Tub, Hot Tub Sex, can you see where this is going, jet streams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-19
Updated: 2015-07-19
Packaged: 2018-04-10 02:41:33
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4374077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp/pseuds/whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>based on <a href="http://thexth.tumblr.com/post/124396955186/fem-sherlock-and-fem-john-in-a-hot-tub-john">this post</a> where femJohn gets femSherlock off in a hot tub with the help of the jets</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Jet Stream

**Author's Note:**

> i cant believe i wrote this ok 
> 
> this is for [johnlockandwifi](http://johnlockandwifi.tumblr.com/) and [thexth](http://thexth.tumblr.com/)

Adventure holidays are all well and good, John decides after a long day of archery and caving and climbing and abseiling and just about anything their overly chipper guide can think of, if you go alone. Going with your goddess of a girlfriend, not so much. It's not that it's not nice, going away as a couple, or that they're getting sick of each other, or that the case they're supposed to be solving is proving too dull or too taxing, or even that Sherlock's being a pain and complaining about everything. Nope, the fault lies completely with the fact that all the exertion makes Sherlock flush, and push her sweaty hair out of her face, and smile wearily and happily in her too big t-shirt, and it makes John want to pounce on her. But she cant. She can't because they've still got four more hours of this before they can leave the centre and go back to their very almost communal cabin. And it's a family centre, so the impromptu skipping of activities to ravage your girlfriend in the nearest cupboard is frowned upon. Damn. 

Today's been the worst of all. Partly because dark caves makes for very tempting spots, partly because Sherlock pokes her tongue out a bit when she's concentrating - and an hour of archery requires a lot of concentration, and partly because it's day five now and John is starting to get fed up of all this waiting. It's alright, she tells herself, they'll be time, they'll be opportunity. 

And the opportunity does come, probably realising John's desperation and pitying her, at the end of the day when the guide dismisses them with a "the pain is good for you!! please don't get divorced!" smile and out of her earshot Sherlock complains 'I'm really stiff.' 

John praises whichever deity drew up the camp's hot tub rota and grins to herself conspiratorially. 'I'll start the bubbles.' 

 

The water's warm and there's no one around and the jets are spurting at the perfect speed: the stage is set. John opens their last few miniature bottles of prosecco and is sipping from the fanciest glasses their cabin provides when Sherlock steps out through the French windows with bare feet and endless legs. She's wearing an old t-shirt rather than the top half of her bikini, which john always finds slightly upsetting because she knows it's from insecurity rather than practicality. Then again, today she doesn't mind quite so much, because it means there's nothing underneath, and t-shirts are easy to get off. It's been almost a year now but she's still not over the fact that she's actually allowed to ogle, it still seems unnatural to be able to stare completely unabashed at Sherlock, at the legs, the cheekbones, the curls, the tiny sliver of alabaster skin that shows as she clambers down into the water with an agonisingly suggestive sigh and her shirt billows up. 

'This is nice,' she says, reaching for her glass. 'my arms were really killing after that abseiling.' 

'Hmm,' John agrees, 'warm water, just what the doctor ordered.' 

Sherlock shrugs and scoots along to settle in next to her girlfriend's shoulder. 'I honestly couldn't care less about the temperature, it's the jet stream that makes me feel better.'

Ding ding ding. And there we have it folks. That's the opportunity, right there, in those two little words. 

'Only cause you're so bloody sensitive,' John tells her, and, when she looks up questioningly, leans down to nip playfully at her neck. 

'Ow,' she whines, nearly spilling her bubbles into the bubbles, and laying the glass aside. 'Okay okay, you've made your point.' She pauses, shuffles even closer, and John is eternally grateful that she's chosen a white t-shirt over the usual purple. 'Do you not like the jets? you can turn it off...'

'I wouldn't dare,' John promises with the most flirtatious grin she can manage. then, feeling almost like a predator stalking some innocent animal, she says casually 'you know, if the jets feel good now, imagine how nice it would be if you turned around...'

Sherlock, predictably, looks up at her with wide eyed confusion. Just you wait, John thinks with a smirk, I'm going to make your eyes wider than they've ever been for a whole other reason. 'What?'

John drops lower into the water, so that only her head and shoulders are above the surface, and leans in close to practically hiss the order in Sherlock's ear: 'turn around.' 

Sherlock does, still with that delectable mixture of arousal and bewilderment on her gorgeous face. She's barely turned, only just made it 180 degrees, when John surges forward in the water and cages her, effectively traps her between her forearms, and pushes her forward.

Immediately she gets a reaction, a quiet 'oh' of understanding, but it's not good enough. She pushes her lower abdomen forward, angling Sherlock's hips upwards just a fraction more, and smiles as she reaps the rewards of a whole string of quiet, eager 'oh's. 

'Nice?' she asks, knowing the answer full well. 

Sherlock just sighs, but that and the fact that John can feel her legs losing their strength makes it obvious enough. 

Encouraged by the success of her plan, John lets her hands wander. Not anywhere blatantly sexual though, she knows it's all in the teasing. Her fingers stoke slowly down Sherlock's arms, which are braced against the side of the tub, over her shoulders, her sides. John eases them slowly under the drifting hem of the t-shirt, lets them flit too across her stomach, her ribs - never high enough to be more than teasing, never low enough to move the evening forward at too quick a pace. She wasn't wrong when she commented on Sherlock's sensitivity - the taller woman is already breathing in a jagged and awkward rhythm, her inhalations getting sharper, her exhalations shuddering more and more each time. 

Hands on her waist now, John lowers her head and starts planting the subtlest kisses possible on that glorious pale neck. It arches, even under these barely kisses, and Sherlock's legs are getting even weaker. 'Take your shirt off,' John tells her, and the words are more vibrations of movement than sounds, the message received more through the shapes her mouth makes against Sherlock's skin than from the words themselves. 

Sherlock fumbles as she goes quickly to the hem, her fingers slipping and twitching against the material, which is so fucking endearing and so fucking hot. She takes her shirt of typically, arms crossed, pulling it over her head and shaking out her hair before tossing it aside. It's like unwrapping a present, or rather, watching a present unwrap itself. Her back is beautiful, truly, especially as it stretches, and John takes a moment to just look, without touching. She only goes on to touching when Sherlock says her name questioningly, and even then she only returns her previous teasing, goes no further, starting by tracing the line of Sherlock's spine from top to bottom and back up again. She only plans to move on when Sherlock needs her to, not simply when she wants it. 

A helpless keening sound is her queue, and she responds with the pent up frustration of five whole days by jolting her hips forward, forcing Sherlock even closer to the wall of the tub, and to the generous jet stream. A gasp is next, but this she takes as her signal to start working upwards, not down. She lets her move at a snail's pace, savouring the quickening rise and fall of Sherlock's chest, and eventually, finally, lets them settle on her breasts. Here, she pauses, waits, listening. she pauses, waits, listening, until Sherlock's tiny little 'oh's turn into a sigh of 'John'. Then, only then, does she smile a crocodiles' smile against her girlfriend's neck and ask 'what?'

'Please...'

Even John's not cruel enough to ask "please what?" when she knows exactly what. She lets her fingers skim in circles, only just touching. First larger circles, then getting smaller and smaller as Sherlock's adorable noises get higher and higher, until she's pressing onto the hardness of her perked nipples. John grins, and gives her a gentle, rewarding kiss. She knows just how wet Sherlock's going to be under the water. She knows just how desperate she truly is. And it's amazing. Dragging it out like this. It's amazing.

She shifts her hips again, angling even closer, and closes her arms together, forming an even smaller cage, just loving the feeling of having complete control, of having Sherlock trembling in her arms, caught in the relentless jet stream. 

Perhaps she is being too harsh, after all its not Sherlock's fault that abseiling and caving and kayaking and God knows what else they've been forced into makes her hot and bothered, and it's not her fault that seeing her like that makes John hot and bothered. John relents lightly, and snakes one hand downwards. Sherlock's little shuddering breath as she draws close to her bikini line, her shuttering eyelids and fluttering lashes, would be enough to turn anyone on, and are almost dangerous considering John's made the bad decision of wearing her brand new board shorts. Still, she spares no thought for her own state, and only lets her hand wander, flingers splayed, until they're trailing into coarse hair, until she feels the first of the wetness that isn't from the wondrous warm water of the tub, until she hears the first of the bashful moans she loves so much. 

She pauses, only momentarily, to savour the result of her handiwork, to enjoy the heat and the damp, to block the jets for a second, giving Sherlock a well-earned break, before drawing back up and playing almost absentmindedly with the string straps her frankly skimpy bikini bottoms. Sherlock whines, her teeth denting her plush lower lip. It's not fair, and John knows it, but neither is waiting five days for a chance to fuck your girlfriend in a hot tub. 

'Don't worry,' she murmurs, gently nipping at Sherlock's neck, 'I'm done teasing now.' And she moves her hand sharply. 

Sherlock actually yelps as John yanks the fabric of her pants aside without consideration (they were probably ruined anyway), and John lets her teeth scrape over the artery in Sherlock's neck as she shushes her. 

'You have to be quiet, love,' she says darkly, knowing full well that the tone of her voice goes against her previous promise of no more teasing, 'this is a family centre. 

Sherlock's hips roll, and her head lolls backwards onto John's shoulder, baring even more of her neck, rucking up her partially soaked hair. She's practically panting as she whispers 'fuck...'

John laughs gently into her arching neck, and moves right up to her ear to answer, letting her tongue flick against the shell of Sherlock's ear: 'that's the idea...'

Sherlock stretches even more at her words, and her teeth are now fully sunk into her lip to stop her crying out as John eases one finger in, then two, and pushes her closer and closer to the jet, so the nozzle is merely an inch from the lycra. 

They move from then on in a steady rhythm, a rhythm of strokes and jolting thrusts and shuddering breaths. Sherlock's thighs are shaking, and her stomach rolls, and her breasts heave under John's fingers. Through her gritted teeth she hisses and keens and whines and murmurs curses and praises and even a small 'I can't...' but when John asks her, teasingly but of course genuine, 'do you want me stop?' she shakes her head far more times than necessary, her damp curls clinging to John's clavicle behind her. 

So john keeps going, she keeps going until the breathy, shaky 'oh's have turned into breathy, shaky 'John's, keeps going even after Sherlock's come with a tiny, weak moan, keeps going until she's coming again and again, until she's a whimpering, trembling mess, incapable of coherent sound, until her body's so limp with exhaustion that she'd probably drown without John's arms to hold her above the surface. 

Only then does she slow her paces, draw her hand out to merely caress, and let her other go still completely to merely hold. Only then, as Sherlock's breathing winds down, and her mouth at last hangs open, red and raw, does John let her move away from the jet stream. 

'Alright?' she asks, smiling as her answer is only a deep, shaky sigh. 'I just really hate you looking so amazing on all those bloody stupid activities and not being able to do anything about it.' 

Sherlock laughs, quietly, with what little breath she's regained, and floats easily closer to her frankly ridiculous girlfriend to cross her hands behind her neck. 'Fantastic,' she says eventually, in answer to John's question, then ads, somewhat sheepishly, 'you were right about the jets...' 

John grins, pulls her closer, says smugly 'I know I was,' and kisses her.

**Author's Note:**

> im on [tumblr](http://whatdoyoumeanionlygetoneotp/) pls say hi


End file.
